


tell me you can't bear a room that i'm not in

by TheTeaIsAddictive



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: (ariana grande voice) and what about it????, F/F, Florists, Implied Sexual Content, Rule 63, Useless Lesbians, and they make out, jane as usual takes no shit, rochester is even worse at expressing her feelings than in-canon, yeah this is basically the proposal scene but femslash au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 07:36:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16193027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTeaIsAddictive/pseuds/TheTeaIsAddictive
Summary: She’d had a stern mental talk with herself the whole way back from Gateshead; flirting with your coworker is a bad idea. Flirting with yourbossis even worse. Flirting with your probably-already-engaged boss who has a seven-year-old kid, and who keeps asking you to make flower arrangements for her fiancé? Aterribleidea.And yet, Jane keeps doing it.





	tell me you can't bear a room that i'm not in

Jane fiddles with the ribbon, trying to get it lying perfectly flat. It’s a garish shade of purple, which honestly reminds her more of Cadbury’s than anything else, but it’s what Rochester wanted. The aquilegia droops threateningly low, and she gently forces the stalks further down into the water. The whole bouquet is a mix of purples, greens, and yellows, which honestly surprises Jane; she’d privately thought that Rochester had better taste than that. Of course, it’s not like Jane is one to talk; the only reason _she’s_  front-of-house at all, and not doing the books like she was hired to do, is because Mrs. Fairfax is off sick. 

The aquilegia no longer in danger of spilling out the front of this monstrosity of a flower arrangement, Jane sidles back behind the cash register, drumming her fingers absently on the counter. It’s a Thursday evening and Thornfield Florists officially closed two minutes ago, so she sidles over to the door and flips the sign (which, funnily enough, she also helped to design. Graphic design isn’t exactly her passion, but it helped pay bills here and there. It was positively serendipitous that she was working with a previous client; Jane knew the importance of networking very well). She takes out her book, a brick-sized copy of _Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell,_ and begins reading more of the dense material. It was a recommendation from Adele, and while Jane didn’t normally take book recs from anybody (least of all her boss’s daughter), she was forced to admit that Adele had accurately gauged her taste. 

The little bell jingles as the door swings open. 

“Sorry, we’re closed,” Jane starts, quickly setting the book aside, but she cuts herself off when she sees who it is. “Oh, Rochester. About time.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, unwinding her steel-grey scarf and setting it carelessly on the hatstand near the counter. “There was a huge traffic rush, and Adele’s Parent’s Night was running late, and on _top_  of that –”

“It’s alright, Rochester,” she chuckles. “I was only teasing.”

A flash of a smile sparks a jolt of electricity in Jane’s heart, and Rochester sags against the window. Her fringe falls into her eyes; it’s been needing a cut for roughly three weeks, but with the season Thornfield has nobody’s had time to do anything normal. Hence, Jane doing customer service when she is, in fact, in charge of making sure that all their stock is where it needs to be. “You have an exceptional poker face,” she continues, brushing the hair away. “It’s positively dangerous.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t play poker, then,” Jane says. As soon as the words are out of her mouth she feels a sting of guilt. She’d had a stern mental talk with herself the whole way back from Gateshead; flirting with your coworker is a bad idea. Flirting with your _boss_  is even worse. Flirting with your probably-already-engaged boss who has a seven-year-old kid, and who keeps asking you to make flower arrangements for her fiancé? A _terrible_  idea. And yet, Jane keeps doing it; when Rochester looks at her the way she is right now, it’s impossible for Jane to stop playing whatever game is between them. 

Rochester chuckles again, the white of her teeth almost shocking underneath her blood-red lips, and Jane melts, like she always does. “It’s funny, seeing you in makeup,” she says without thinking. 

“Oh? Like at the Christmas party a while back, with the sad spirit?”

Jane simply stares at Rochester, and she obediently cuts the bullshit. That Christmas party still haunts Jane, sometimes; the strange lights and sound effects Rochester had strung up in the library, and the sudden appearance of the Victorian ghost who claimed to see into everybody’s souls. It had just been Rochester playing a trick, of course, and Jane hadn’t … hadn’t _really_  fallen for it. 

“I don’t know,” Jane says, focusing on Rochester now. “You seem … sharper around the edges.”

She hums thoughtfully. “I feel that way myself.” She fiddles with her fingers for a moment, and darts a glance up at Jane. “But you – you’re sharp enough without needing eyeliner or lipstick to kill a man.” Jane lets out a half-smile at the reference, but Rochester still seems dejected. “Are you sharp enough to know where the wind is blowing?”

Oh. So it’s time for this talk. 

“So it’s true? You’re marrying Bran Ingram?” It’s too confrontational and Jane knows it, but she can’t stop herself. 

“I suppose so,” Rochester says. “We’ll merge the shop with his business, and his workers will take charge. I’ve found other places for you and Mrs Fairfax, although if you don’t want to take it I understand.”

Jane looks down at the ground. The floor needs swept; green leaves and half-dead flower cuttings are all over the floor. “Where?” she asks, with a steadier voice than she imagined. 

“Ireland,” Rochester says. 

Jane’s head flies up. “Ireland!” she repeats. “But – but that’s so far away! From – from England, and Thornfield, and – you.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and she turns away from Rochester so that she can’t see the tears forming in Jane’s eyes. 

“It’s funny,” Rochester says, and how is her voice so _calm_  right now? “But I’ve had a strange feeling for a few months now – that there’s a sort of connection between us. A little string between our two hearts. And if we wander too far away from each other, it’ll just snap in two; I have a feeling that I’d take to bleeding inwardly.” Jane hears her take a step towards her. “As for you,” she says, her voice somehow hollow, “you’d forget me.”

And that thought, that she could just _forget_  Rochester, makes Jane spin around in righteous fury, hot tears coursing down her cheeks. “Forget you! How could I forget you?” Rochester takes a half-step back, her hands palm-up to Jane in a gesture of self-defence, but she seizes Rochester by the wrists to stop her. “You’re the most intelligent, single-minded, infuriating woman I’ve ever met! Nobody I’ve known has come close to you and no one ever will, and you think I’ll _forget_  you?” Rochester must be in pain from the vice-like grip Jane has on her wrists, but she doesn’t move. “I don’t know what the _fuck_  you think you’re doing, but whatever _this_ is between us,” and she shakes Rochester’s wrists for emphasis, “it doesn’t happen to me. I don’t think it happens to you, either.”

Rochester’s eyes are just a disc of grey around her dilated pupils, and she gasps out, “You’re right.” 

“About?”

“My feelings for you. They’re real, and true; probably the truest thing about me, I swear to god.”

“Don’t – don’t mock me,” Jane says flatly. 

“Jane –”

“I knew – I knew you were _flirting_  with me, I’m not completely dense, but you don’t have – have _feelings_  for me, and to say that you do is fucking _low.”_  Her breath comes quickly, and Jane can feel her temper, that long-dormant thing, begin to stir within her chest. “I’m not some – some puzzle, or fucking MPDG fantasy – and just because I’m not some tall, thin, leggy blonde doesn’t mean I don’t have my pride!” She’s crying again, to her eternal humiliation, and Rochester is _looking_  at her like she cares about Jane’s emotional state, which is just – ridiculous. “So you know what,” she says, dropping Rochester’s wrists, “why don’t you just go back to Bran, and marry him, and be perfectly _fucking_  happy together?”

“I don’t _want_  to marry Bran, for fuck’s sake!” Rochester shouts. “I don’t give a single solitary _fuck_  about _Bran_ , I’m in love with _you,_ Jane!” She lunges for Jane’s hand, presses it against her racing heart. “I swear, Jane, I wasn’t trying to hurt you – I’m a fucking idiot, you _know_  that. Everybody knows that, but you’re the only one who pushes me to be better! You call me out on my bullshit. You make me laugh. You make me happy,” she says, her voice breaking. “I’ve been in love with you the moment you saved me from burning to death in my own bed, Jane.”

Jane grabs Rochester’s shoulder. “Come under here; under the light.” Rochester obediently goes where she’s prodded, although her fingers still form a strong manacle around Jane’s wrist. The shitty overhead light (Thornfield Florists is largely dependent on natural light) casts an orange glow over Rochester’s striking features, but does nothing to disprove the earnestness over her face. “Jane?” she says quietly. 

“Let go of me, please,” she replies, equally softly. “I’m not a bird. I’m not going to fly away.”

Rochester drops Jane’s hand. She keeps it on Rochester’s chest, feeling her hammering heart, the expansion of her lungs as she breathes. Her thumb brushes the inside curve of her breast. Rochester sucks in a breath at the movement, but otherwise doesn’t move. 

“You love me?” Jane asks quietly.

“With all my heart,” Rochester replies. 

Jane reaches up for her neck, gently tugging Rochester’s head down. Their lips meet, and Jane presses herself fully against Rochester’s body. Her hands splay across Jane’s back as she crushes Jane to her, opening her mouth to the gentle investigation of Jane’s tongue. Rochester gasps, a harsh sound in the otherwise silent shop. 

“I love you too, Rochester,” she murmurs against her lips. 

“Ebba,” she says between short, light kisses. “Please. Call me Ebba.”

“Ebba,” Jane sighs, and Rochester groans as Jane takes her earlobe between her teeth. 

When Jane looks out the window the next morning -- not even the warmth of Rochester's naked body against hers a strong enough temptation to stay in bed after her alarm has gone off -- she finds that a lightning storm had split apart the old oak tree at the bottom of Rochester’s garden.

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'human' by dodie.
> 
> this was the result of a tumblr prompt; florist au and green-eyed epiphany, with dealer's choice of ship. i was pretty sure that jane had green eyes (it's been a while since i've read the book, ok???) and this was the result.


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